


A Typical Dwarrow Afterlife, as told by Thorin Oakenshield

by Tamloid



Series: Reflections in a Mirror [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, M/M, Magic Mirrors, Minor Frodo Baggins/Samwise Gamgee, Minor Gimli/Legolas Greenleaf, Minor Kíli/Tauriel, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27412891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamloid/pseuds/Tamloid
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield was having a rather decent afterlifeyes, I am, thank you very much Frerin!Until he wasn’t anymore.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Reflections in a Mirror [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006104
Comments: 25
Kudos: 260





	A Typical Dwarrow Afterlife, as told by Thorin Oakenshield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Porphyrios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/gifts).



> This was inspired by a silly comment I left on ["Roses of Iron"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373078) by Porphyrios with a humorous take on Bilbo/Thorin being angry over their beloved's ultimate fate and yelling at Mahal/Yavanna about it and the Valar turning to their spouse and going "That one's your problem." Of course I had to turn it into sort-of-angst, sort-of-sad, sort-of-humor, sort-of-fluff, but that's how it goes, apparently. *shrug* Please forgive the gratuitous use of italics.

Thorin Oakenshield was having a rather decent afterlife.

Granted, Thorin hadn’t spent much time during his _actual_ life thinking about what the Halls of Waiting might be like for the deceased. For all that he had been raised as a prince of Durin’s line in the wealthiest kingdom of Durin’s folk, Thorin’s education into the folklore around his people’s afterlife was, well, lacking.

In his parents’ and tutors’ defense, there had been more important aspects of royal life and responsibility to focus on at the time, what with his grandfather succumbing to gold sickness practically before Thorin’s beard had grown in properly. Thorin’s father, Thráin, had needed to step up and assume the day to day responsibilities of the King of Erebor while the King himself sequestered himself away in the Treasury. Thorin, as second heir to the throne behind his father, had assumed many of his father’s duties as heir to the throne well before he was expected so that his father had the time to run the kingdom. All the while maintaining the façade that Thrór was, in fact, in charge and capable of ruling Erebor.

His tutors, Balin in particular, had been hard pressed simply to teach Thorin what he needed to know to assume his father’s position—the political intricacies of the Council of Lords, the role and power held by each of the crafting guilds, trade contracts with neighboring kingdoms, and the like. And Thorin himself had understandably been more focused on keeping Erebor running than on learning the deeper debates and theories of Dwarrow philosophers who contemplated the time after death.

And then, well, the dragon came, and exile, and Azanulbizar, and the point was that Thorin was rather more focused on simply keeping his people alive than contemplating what awaited him after he died.

So when Thorin _had_ died and arrived in the Halls a few years ago, he hadn’t really been expecting much of anything. If pressed, he would say that he expected traditional and grand Dwarven halls carved deep within a living mountain, the comforting weight of stone, and the stillness of, well, _waiting_. 

And in those Thorin was indeed correct. After the initial period of disorientation at dying and then _waking up again,_ recalling the events leading up to his death, and regaining his senses, Thorin found that there were, in fact, mountain halls grander than any he had seen outside history tomes and the sense of _peace_ infusing air.

There were also, he learned, people. His people. Those who had passed into the Halls before him. People who helped him settle into this new existence, showing him how to walk and breathe again. 

His beloved brother, Frerin, lost at Azanulbizar, helping him learn to simply _be still_ and _stop rushing, for once in your, well, not life, but you know what I mean, nadad._ And then contradicting all his supposed wisdom by bounding after Thorin as he learned his way about his new mountain home.

Frís, his kind and beautiful mother who had died even before Smaug had chased them out of the mountain and left her husband and three young children to the kingdom’s mercies. Even here in Mahal’s Halls Frís smelled just as he remembered she did when he was a boy: a unique combination of earthiness from the herb gardens she maintained for the Healers Guild and freshly-forged silver from crafting delicate jewelry and beads. When they had fled the mountain years after Frís had died, Thorin had been wearing a few of those beads in his hair. He had kept them throughout their time in exile, taking on more and more work so that he wouldn’t have to sell them for food. Her smile and gentle _I’m so proud of you, inùdoy, my son_ filled a crack in his heart that had been there so long he had forgotten what it felt like whole.

Still, his first few years after death weren’t completely peaceful. He was still rather bitter over the fact that he had died only, oh, a week after reclaiming his kingdom. A mere handful of days after decades spent in toil and exile. Only to have his cousin sit on the throne he had refused to help reclaim. That stung.

He was, and remained, rather ashamed that Fíli and Kíli, his two beloved sister-sons, had awoken in the Halls even before Thorin. That they had fallen to their deaths on a battlefield made worse by Thorin’s weakness for gold. That he had let them join his quest in the first place and leave their mother alone.

He had some rather spectacular shouting matches with Thrór and with Thráin in the early months after his awakening. He shouted at them about leaving him in charge of their exiled people before he was even of age, about the gold sickness that brought down their kingdom. They shouted at him about falling to the same madness as his forefathers, about betraying his allies, about threatening kith and kin. It was loud and angry shouting but rather cathartic in the end and everyone had walked away with all limbs intact, at least.

So, no, the first few years of Thorin’s afterlife weren’t entirely calm (and how could they be with Frerin, Fíli, and Kíli teaming up to needle him out of his personal forge every few days? _So what if he was mostly crafting flowers and waistcoat buttons and delicate crowns, stop smirking boys!_ ), but overall Thorin Oakenshield was content in a way he hadn’t been in far too long.

And then he found the Mirrors.

* * *

Thorin Oakenshield was having an excruciatingly painful afterlife.

Alright, that might have been an overstatement, _yes, I realize I’m being dramatic, thank you Frerin!_ But ever since Thorin had stumbled upon the Hall of Mirrors in Mahal’s mountain his time here had gone from “not quite perfect but I’m making peace with how my life went” to “I’ve brought this pain upon myself and it’s no less than I deserve.”

Thorin had been walking through the mountain, letting his mind wander at a placid pace, when a glint in the shadows had caught his eye. When he turned to investigate he had discovered a vast chamber filled floor to ceiling with Mirrors of all shapes and sizes, from tiny handheld Mirrors that lined stone tables and benches to the vast floor-to-ceiling Mirror that took up nearly the entirety of the far wall. As Thorin wandered through the chamber he noticed that every Mirror was different in some way: the size, the shape, the curvature, the frame. A few had the most intricate filigree Thorin had ever seen, more delicately detailed than any mortal hand could craft. Had he been anywhere else, he might have described it as _Elvish_. All were polished to a perfect shine, not even a smudge to distort the image.

Thorin’s image was reflected back at him many thousandfold, the same image of the same dwarf from every conceivable angle. The same image Thorin had seen every day since arriving in Mahal’s Halls, the same as he had been the day he died—although admittedly less bloodstained and ragged than he'd been on the battlefield. As he turned to take in the sheer variety of designs, his gaze was drawn to one particular Mirror set midway down the right-hand wall. It showed not Thorin’s reflection, but a flash of brilliant green. 

As he approached, Thorin saw that the Mirror was perfectly round, slightly taller and wider than Thorin himself, with a frame decorated with oak leaves and acorns cast in brass. A particular cluster of acorns on the right-hand edge was at the perfect height for a doorknob had this, in fact, been a door and not a Mirror. And centered in the polished glass was the familiar figure of his burglar, _oh, Bilbo,_ kneeling in the soil of his garden with the rolling green hills of the Shire behind him.

Thorin had raced through the mountain looking for someone, _anyone,_ to explain to him why his Hobbit, who was _supposed_ to be safe at home was actually in a Mirror in the Halls of Waiting. He thought Bilbo to be dead and trapped somehow. It’s possible that he had panicked. But he learned from his mother that the Hall of Mirrors was for those Dwarrow who had died before their One, who had left the other half of their souls behind on the mortal plain and now waited for them in the afterlife. Each Mirror connected a single Dwarf to their One or Ones and allowed them to know their lives until they were reunited to await the rebirth of the world. Frís, through her Mirror, had followed her husband in exile, battle, and imprisonment.

And Thorin’s Mirror showed him Bilbo Baggins.

Fíli and Kíli had laughed themselves silly after learning this, and Frerin joined them after he learned the tale of the quest. It was no secret to them that Thorin’s time at the forge had been spent creating pieces that he might have made for Bilbo had the Hobbit stayed with him in Erebor (and they all lived, of course). But the three troublemakers sobered up when Thorin reminded them of the last few days of his life: Bilbo facing Smaug, Thorin threatening him with his sword, the mithil and the Arkenstone, holding Bilbo over Erebor’s battlements, the harsh words that he barely had time to take back before he died. First, Thorin’s arrogance and single-minded focus had prevented him from recognizing his One and valuing his worth, then gold sickness had led Thorin to threaten Bilbo’s life, and now Thorin could only watch as his One moved through life without him. They had been friends in the end, Thorin hoped, but it was hardly a love story for the Ages.

Still, for the next few decades Thorin’s feet took him again and again to Bilbo’s Mirror. He occasionally saw other Dwarrow in the Hall of Mirrors but there seemed to be a tacit understanding that a person was to be left undisturbed while at their Mirror. And if Thorin sometimes saw Kíli standing in front of one of the Elvish-looking Mirrors, well, he certainly was in no position to judge someone whose other half was not a Dwarf.

He watched, entranced for hours at a time, as Bilbo tended his garden, wrote his book, sat contentedly in his armchair smoking a pipe in front of the fire. He had missed the few years right after Bilbo’s return to the Shire and so didn’t see him plant the acorn taken from Beorn’s garden. But Thorin watched as Bilbo tended the sapling that had sprouted and gazed at it with a thoughtful look on his face. If Bilbo occasionally looked mournful as he cared for the tiny oak tree, well, surely that was only Thorin imagining his own emotions projected on that gentle face.

It was _agonizing_ to see Bilbo going about his life after their adventure. Bilbo would go go to the market and talking with other Hobbits with a pleasant smile on his face but still rather set apart from others. He seemed to take great joy in cooking and baking but he nearly always ate alone. Throughout the years Thorin never really saw Bilbo _connect_ with another of his kin. There were a few close friends whose faces he came to recognize over the years, but no confidants, no lovers, no _partners_. Bilbo seemed content enough but never truly joyful except when entertaining the little children, and Thorin’s heart _hurt_ for his One to be amongst his people but never truly welcomed.

Thorin watched as Bilbo brought his younger cousin home to live with him for the first time. Watched as Bilbo struggle to care for Frodo after his parent’s death. Watched the heartbreak in Bilbo’s eyes as he called Frodo _Nephew_ and was called _Uncle Bilbo_ in return. Thorin imagined that Bilbo was thinking of two other younglings that might have called him Uncle in another life and he left the Mirror rather early that day to hold his own sister-sons for a while.

Thorin watched with concern as Bilbo grew older but not as quickly as he should have been. Watched Bilbo and Frodo celebrate birthday after birthday with extravagant parties. Watched with troubled thoughts as Bilbo spent less time staring at the now fully-grown oak tree and more time staring at a tiny golden ring in his palm. He would suddenly startle and stare at it rather more intently as if just realizing it was there and stuff it back in his pocket. Watched Bilbo become a shell of his former self as he devoted his attention more and more to his golden trinket.

Watched, decades after discovering the Mirror, as Bilbo made his preparations to leave the Shire once more and leave everything to Frodo. Watched as Gandalf appeared at the last minute to remind Bilbo to leave his ring to Frodo, too. Watched an achingly familiar expression appear on Bilbo’s face, _oh, I never wanted him to know what that feels like,_ as he resisted leaving the ring behind, watched with bated breath as Bilbo slowly tilted his palm, watched the relief on Bilbo’s face as the ring hit the ground with a too-loud _thud,_ watched him turn around and close the door to his beloved Bag End for the last time.

Watched as, years later, the ring showed up once again after Bilbo was firmly settled in Rivendell. Bilbo sitting at Frodo’s side as his nephew recovered from a grievous wound.

Thorin was watching the horror and devastation wash over Bilbo’s face as he learned from the others what his ring, _that Ring,_ really was. Had the Mirror been a mirror and not a window into Bilbo’s life, Thorin was sure his own reflection would have matched perfectly.

And Thorin was no longer in pain. He was _enraged_.

* * *

Thorin Oakenshield was on a quest. In the afterlife.

It wasn’t what he expected to be doing while he waited for Dagor Dagorath, but there he was. Questing. Frerin and Fíli and Kíli were on the quest with him and his mother was very quietly thrilled. Balin and Ori and Oín, who had showed up a few decades after Thorin, wholeheartedly supported him. Thorin wasn’t altogether sure that was a ringing endorsement of his sanity because _why in Durin’s name would you try for Khazad-dûm again, Balin? Was once not enough for you!_ He was pretty sure that Thráin and Thrór were on his side, too, only in a stoic and silent sort of way. His whole family was, quite frankly, out of their minds and Thorin was leading the charge.

Thorin was trying to find Mahal himself, to talk to The Maker in the hopes that he could get to The Maker’s wife, the Green Lady. Because, oh, Thorin had some choice words to say to the Green Lady.

In the end, maybe “quest” wasn’t the right word for it because Frerin, Fíli, and Kíli knew where to go all along _and why did I ever think that introducing the three of you would be a good thing? This mountain might not survive until the end of the world, after all._ Once Thorin told them his plan they set off toward the heart of the mountain and the greatest forge Thorin had ever seen.

The Great Smith was at his workbench putting the finishing touches on what looked to be one of the Elvish-style Mirror frames. The symbols seemed somewhat familiar and Thorin eventually placed it as the mark of Mirkwood’s prince, whom Thorin recalled in passing during their imprisonment in Thranduil’s dungeons.

Shrugging off the mystery of the Mirror’s Dwarven owner for another day, Thorin cleared his throat and bowed low. 

“My lord Mahal,” he started, ”I beg your forgiveness for the interruption, but I must speak with you at once.”

The Great Smith finished shaping the delicate twisting branch he was working on before placing his tools down on the bench and looking up at Thorin. Thorin was struck by just how _ordinary_ his Maker looked. Only slightly taller than Thorin himself and about as broad, Mahal’s dark skin, long dark hair, and full beard with intricate braiding wouldn’t have been out of place in most Dwarven kingdoms. It was his eyes however, _Durin’s eyes, Thorin’s eyes, too,_ that pierced Thorin’s mind and soul and drove home the power and might of the being before him.

Mahal turned away from Thorin and back to his work. “I am busy, my son.” The Maker said. “And I am not the one you seek.”

Thorin swallowed hard and glanced behind him in the hopes that his family would give him more courage. The hall they had come from was empty of any troublemaking family members, _the traitors_. “You are right, of course, my lord Mahal, that you are not the one I seek. But you can take me to her and, I hope, convince her to let me speak to her. Your lady wife, Yavanna, maker of my One’s people.”

At this Mahal paused in his crafting and looked up at Thorin again. His gaze took in Thorin’s posture, more defiant now that Thorin had remembered his purpose here and anger overrode his sense of deference. After a long, tense moment of silence, Mahal sighed the sigh of a soon-to-be beleaguered husband.

“Fine,” the Smith said, “on your head be it. Come with me.” Mahal led him to the far wall behind the forge where another large Mirror stood, hidden behind the great forge from where Thorin had entered the room. He stared at the Mirror in surprise. It looked remarkably similar to Thorin’s own Mirror, down to the round shape and leaf-like decorations. Although, of course, Mahal’s own Mirror was framed in mithril and not brass. Through the Mirror Thorin could see rolling green hills and sculpted gardens and towering trees that seemed to sway on their own.

Mahal walked past Thorin toward the Mirror and grunted an amused, “Follow me,” at the stupefied dwarf, before walking straight through the Mirror’s surface. Thorin took a breath and did the same, exhaling when he stepped into _warmth and fresh air and light and scented breeze_. Thorin closed his eyes and just breathed in the peaceful air of Yavanna’s Garden, a sense of calm that he had never known settling over him, and understood for the first time to the depths of his soul that he and Bilbo fit together perfectly.

When Thorin opened his eyes he immediately wished he had waited another few moments as he caught sight of his Maker, the Great Smith, the mighty creator of Durin’s folk, passionately kissing what looked to be a plump Hobbit lass. They didn’t seem phased by Thorin’s presence and had eyes _and tongue, gah, I can’t unsee that_! only for each other.

Thorin’s ears and cheeks burned and he might have made some sort of gurgling sound in the back of his throat because the kissing finally finished and the pair of mighty Valar turned to look at Thorin in amusement.

“Why did you bring him here?” Yavanna asked her husband. “He is one of yours, my love.”

Mahal cleared his throat. “This is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin,” Thorin’s Maker replied, seeming a bit sheepish, as if Thorin’s name explained his presence. And in a way, Thorin guessed that it did. He didn’t recall seeing any other Mirrors that looked anything like his own. The Green Lady said nothing in response to her husband and simply hummed in reply.

Thorin took that as his cue. “My lady Yavanna,” he started, and then paused, trying to find the right words to express his outrage. “ _Why?_ ”

Yavanna didn’t look offended by the question. “Why what, young Thorin?”

Putting aside that he hadn’t been “young Thorin” since Dáin’s heir was born—he supposed that to the ageless Vala he was practically a babe in arms—Thorin tried again. “How could you do that to him? To Bilbo,” he started. “Left alone after his parents died, left alone again after Erebor, ostracized in his homeland, and then to have his body and mind corrupted by the foulest thing to ever be struck from a forge?! To have his wit and his charm and his clever mind waste away, eaten away by that cursed golden _thing_?! So much so that it forced him from his home—again!—only to have him leave the wretched thing to his beloved nephew, tainting the one bright light he had left in the world after we who would have been his family _died_ —” 

Thorin cut himself off after he realized that he was shouting at one of the most powerful beings in creation. He clenched and unclenched his fists, breathing heavily as he struggled to regain control of himself. “Why?” he repeated in a softer voice. “Why would you give such a cruel, terrible life to an honorable, courageous, and loyal soul? Why would you do that to Bilbo Baggins?”

Mahal looked angry at him for yelling at his wife, but Yavanna merely looked at Thorin with a mixture of sadness and what looked like _pride_ in her eyes. “Truly,” she said gently, “my husband and I chose well when we placed the two of you together. You and Bilbo are _made_ for each other. My Bilbo is indeed fortunate to have such a stalwart defender as the other half of his soul.”

She paused. “I’m sorry, young Thorin,” she eventually said with a sad smile, “I cannot answer your question, for such answers lie with Eru Ilúvatar himself, and I doubt he would take the time to see you, nor have patience if you were to shout at him as you did I,” she added with a faint smile, before growing serious again. “All I can say is that Bilbo was _meant_ to find the Ring. And Frodo was meant to carry it and destroy it. My love and I could only give them the strength to do so. We gave him the strength to resist the call of the Ring for as long as possible, to fight the corrupting call of gold by remembering what happened to his own love.”

Thorin startled at that answer and at the explanation that his gold lust, the madness of his line, _Thorin’s shame and Thorin’s downfall,_ might have played some part in Bilbo’s resistance to the Ring’s corrupting influence. It was something he hadn’t considered, and he flushed deeply at realizing that he hadn’t really taken the time to think things through _at all,_ that he had rushed over here to scold a Vala. _Mahal, how embarrassing!_

Mahal chuckled as if he had heard what Thorin had thought in the privacy of his own head and Thorin flushed again, realizing that maybe Mahal _had_ actually heard him invoking his Maker’s name. “Well then,” Mahal said to Thorin, “was that all, or did you have other issues to take up with my love?”

Thorin cleared his throat, a fierce blush still staining his cheeks as it hadn’t since he was a dwarfling. “ _Young Thorin,” indeed._ “No, my lord, my lady. That was all. I thank you for your indulgence.”

Yavanna simply smiled again and approached him. She cradled his head in one hand and bent to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Thorin’s face relaxed as warmth and what he could only describe as a mother’s love washed over him. “Fear not, my young Thorin,” she whispered. “All is not yet lost. There is still light in Bilbo’s future.”

With that Yavanna turned away and gave Thorin’s Maker one last lingering kiss that embarrassed him worse than any time he had caught his parents kissing. “Now, be gone with you both,” she said primly in a way that reminded Thorin of Bilbo with a sharp pang. “This is, after all, a Hobbit’s garden and not a place for Dwarrow. Back to your mountain halls with you.” 

Mahal seemed amused as they were shooed away. He ushered Thorin back toward the Mirror which, from this side, showed an image of Mahal’s great forge within the mountain, empty though it currently was. The two stepped through the Mirror and Mahal continued firmly leading him out of the forge and back into the hallway outside. Thorin walked back towards his family’s rooms in a daze, vaguely aware that his brother and sister-sons had rejoined him at some point and were pestering him with questions that he couldn’t answer.

A while after reaching the more familiar areas of the mountain he answered his family’s concerns as best as he could and then stole away again to the Hall of Mirrors. The journey to Yavanna’s Garden had given Thorin a lot to think about.

* * *

Thorin Oakenshield was having a thoroughly heartbreaking afterlife.

He had spent several years since his enlightening and, honestly, embarrassing quest to Yavanna’s Garden alternately sitting in front of his Mirror watching Bilbo age and lose himself ever more rapidly and speaking with his mother about what he had learned from the Green Lady. Did Thorin’s fall to gold sickness, the curse of his line and what drove him to nearly kill his One, serve the greater purpose of helping Bilbo resist the addicting call of the Ring? Did that absolve Thorin of his guilt? Was Bilbo’s suffering, years of grief and sorrow, worth it if it led to Sauron’s eventual downfall?

In the end neither Thorin nor his mother knew the answers, but in the end it really didn’t matter. It had happened, to Thorin and to Bilbo and all the rest of them, and in the end Frodo destroyed the Ring. When Bilbo visited Frodo in the aftermath Thorin could see that his beloved’s nephew had given up nearly everything to do so. And yet the dawn of the Fourth Age was upon them thanks to Frodo and his Samwise.

One day some years after the end of the War of the Ring, as the Dwarrow who were freshly arrived in the Halls of Waiting called it, Thorin was once again sitting in front of his Mirror when the scene within simply vanished. Gone. One second Thorin was memorizing Bilbo’s face, no less beloved for its recent wrinkles and age spots, and the next second Thorin was staring at his own face, the same one he had worn unchanged since the day he had died.

 _No! Where could he go that the Mirror could not find him?!_ Thorin thought in desperation. When he ran to tell his family what had happened they had no more idea why or how than Thorin did. Thorin had eventually made his way back to Mahal’s forge to ask the Great Smith where Bilbo had gone, only to find the door closed and locked and Thorin unable to enter.

He made his way back to the Mirror and sat there for weeks on end, barely registering his own reflection, watching and waiting for a sign that Bilbo would return. Frerin tried to drag him away, as did Fíli and Kíli but _I can’t just abandon him now, my boys, not now, not after everything he has lost in the name of the greater good, I just can’t._

Balin, his mother and father, even his grandfather eventually, all tried to convince Thorin to give up his vigil in front of the Mirror, all in vain. Until one day Fíli ran into the Hall of Mirrors with a shout of “Uncle! Uncle! Come quick!” and startled Thorin out of the trance-line state he had been in for, _Mahal, how long now?_ simply staring at the unchanged Mirror in front of him.

“What is it, Fíli?” Thorin asked with a raspy voice, rough with disuse.

“There’s something happening at the Great Forge, Uncle!” Fíli gasped, short of breath from running.”Kíli says you have to come at once!”

Thorin lurched to his feet, joints stiff and aching from sitting in the same position for too long, and FIli grabbed his hand and dragged him through the Halls of Waiting. They rushed through the familiar passages leading ever deeper towards the mountain’s heart. As they neared the doors to Mahal’s forge they could hear the murmurs of a crowd and then a sharp, stinging, _beautiful_ voice rising above the crowd.

“I don’t care that it was his so-called destiny or whatever codswallop you’re trying to convince me of!” said the voice, higher in pitch than any Dwarrow. “He spent years, _decades,_ of his life leading his people, helping them survive through starvation and poverty and homelessness and then he died—died!—practically on the eve of his victory! Him and both his heirs, too! All the heirs of your beloved Durin the Deathless slain in battle on Erebor’s doorstep and Dáin bloody Ironfoot claimed the throne. Dáin! He didn’t even support the quest to regain the mountain in the first place and he of all Dwarrow sat upon the throne on the eve of victory! How could you do that to Thorin?! _How could you do that to him!?_ ”

By that point Thorin had pushed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding the door of the forge and was witness to the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Bilbo, his beloved burglar, his One, young and vital in flesh, eyes bright and cheeks rosy with righteous anger, staring down Mahal with a finger poking the Smith’s chest. He caught sight of Yavanna standing by the Mahal’s Mirror and thought with humor, _My lady, you were right. We were made for each other._ Yavanna simply smiled brighter.

Thorin stepped forward into the forge and the movement must have caught Bilbo’s attention, for within the blink of an eye Thorin had an armful of Hobbit. Thorin wasn’t complaining. He wrapped his arms tight around Bilbo’s shaking frame, feeling warm and settled for the first time since he had left Yavanna’s Garden. The crowd and the forge and even the two Valar faded into the background of Thorin’s consciousness, all his attention on his One in his arms and on the feel and taste of Bilbo’s skin under Thorin’s lips as he buried his head in the Hobbit’s neck. He gradually grew aware of Bilbo repeating Thorin’s name under his breath like a mantra, years of grief and sorrow and loneliness in each syllable, slowly fading into tones of amazement and joy and _love_.

Thorin eventually pulled back from the embrace, but not from Bilbo, shifting his hands to settle on either side of Bilbo’s face and pressing their foreheads together. Bilbo’s eyes were bright with tears as they met Thorin’s and he was smiling the most beautiful smile Thorin had ever seen. 

“Hello there, my love,” Bilbo whispered in the intimate quiet space between them. Thorin could only smile back.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin replied, his voice heavy with emotion, “My love. My One. I am so _proud_ of you.” Bilbo sobbed once and grinned again and Thorin gathered him up again in an embrace identical to their first all those years ago atop the Carrock.

That seemed to be the signal for Fíli and Kíli to approach and join in the now-group hug, and Bilbo welcomed their nephews with joyful laughter. There was plenty to still figure out—where Bilbo had gone when the Mirror went dark, where they would live, could Thorin meet Bilbo’s parents, his mother would want a wedding, and _Frodo!_ Thorin needed to meet his other nephew, at last—but those were welcome problems for them to figure out in the future, together.

Meeting Bilbo’s eyes once more, Thorin could only grin and think, _This will be an amazing afterlife._

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. Point out typos if you see them :) I love comments <3
> 
> Edit: fixed typos, formatting, grammatical errors, and mirrors that should have been capital-M Magic Mirrors.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dripping Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425797) by [Porphyrios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios)




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